HIDEY-HOLE
by
Cindy Rosmus
Atlantic City, 1972
“Stay out of sight,” Mrs. Marshall warned
me.
Why?, I thought. Could they really be
looking? Could anybody want, or care, about me?
Here, in Atlantic City, I tried to
disappear. Hiding out at Mrs. Marshall’s fortune-telling place, off the
boardwalk. Her old house smelled of the sea. Shabby, with huge, dusty furniture
and thick drapes. And those beaded curtains that tinkled each time she walked
through them. She was so nice to let me stay.
I had no money, ‘cept for what Mom had kept
in her “hidey-hole.” In that pink
satin lingerie bag I’d loved rubbing my face against, even though I hated her.
And now, Mom was dead.
Weeks I’d been “missing.” If anybody
cared. But ‘cos I was fourteen, you couldn’t just disappear. They had to find
you. Especially after what happened.
At the hotel, they’d found Mom: nude, spread-eagled,
that gold turban
askew. When Jessie the maid screamed, the whole world came running.
That
guy—with the creepy eyes—had
killed her.
That’s what Mrs. Marshall had
predicted. “Beware . . .” she’d told Mom, who laughed.
“This guy, right?” In the lobby, Mom
crossed her tanned legs. “Said he’d
been watching me for a while.” She looked around, like he was lurking behind
the check-in desk. “Pammy, I could . . . feel . . . his eyes on me!”
Pammy. My nickname when I was four.
“Yeah.” She squirmed in her seat.
“He’s the one, all right.”
Maybe Creepy Eyes killed me, too. The
fourteen-year-old daughter. I bet that’s what they thought.
Thanks to those ghouls, my Pop was dead, too.
Whoever called Pop . . . What they said . . .
How they said it . . .
Made me cry, all over again.
“They lied,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Told
him you were both dead! Someone . . .” She snorted. “Had just seen you in the
lobby . . . alive.”
Howard, I thought miserably. Who’d
looked right through me. Like I really was dead.
Howard, the hotel owner’s son, who I still
loved so much, even after he’d dumped
me for other girl guests.
“Your father’s heart gave out,” Mrs.
Marshall said, sadly. “Believing you died, too.”
No more Pop, smelling of beer, and
kielbasy. Watery eyes too scared to meet mine, or Mom’s. Her lip had curled,
just thinking of him. Those hellish months carrying his baby. “You’ll
love him,” she said he’d told her.
“After he’s born. You’ll see.” Pop poured another shot. “Him, or . . . her.”
But Mom didn’t. An orphan, I was, now.
Like in those stupid Dickens books we read in school. Like Oliver Twist.
With Mrs. Marshall as Fagin, or crazy
Miss Havisham, in her rotted wedding dress.
What did I really
know about her? Just that
she read palms, and tarot cards, and wore blonde flip wigs from the ‘60s. She
had to be like 70. Come to think of it, I’d never seen her eyes, ‘cos she
always wore those leopard sunglasses.
Still, she’d took me in.
But, to do what with me?
“For now,” she said, “stay out of
sight.” She pointed to a storage closet, inside her fortune-telling parlor.
“From in there, you can watch. And listen, so you know how it’s done.”
How it’s done?
Meaning, none of it was real?
Twice, I was here with Mom, while “it was
done.” In the waiting room I
sat, while Mrs. Marshall read Mom’s palm, or the cards, or whatever tipped her
off about Mom’s creepy-eyed killer.
Was he even real?
Was Pop really dead?
Stay out of sight.
In that hidey-hole. Smelling of dust,
and incense, like in church. No canned foods, like you’d expect. Mrs. Marshall
never cooked. She brought us hot dogs, frozen custards, from the boardwalk.
“What do you mean,” the fat lady said,
“my heart line is ‘broken?’”
From my secret spot, I saw Mrs.
Marshall’s smirk. “What do you think that means, sweetie?”
As she read more of the lady’s chubby
palm, I crept out of the closet and out the back door.
Somewhere on the boardwalk I would
find a phone.
In broad daylight I was, “not” out of
sight. At the Steeplechase Pier, I heard kids screeching on rides. In the
background, Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” played. School was out, all right.
Forever, at least for me.
Further down the boardwalk, I walked past tacky
souvenir shops. Smelling
fresh bread pretzels from the stand where Howard worked. There he was, flirting
with girls that didn’t stay at his dad’s hotel. How jealous I was!
A new one, Howard had now. The sea breeze blew
her hair in her eyes, and
gently, he tucked it behind her ear. Like he had done, with me.
It felt like years, not weeks, since that happened.
Across from Howard’s stand were pay phones.
No booths, no hidey-holes, just phones, where people could see me talking. Know
that I wasn’t dead, like Mom.
And I didn’t care.
I grabbed the receiver, then realized
I had no change. I’d have to call collect. If Pop was alive, he would accept
the charges.
But if he was dead . . .
“Operator,” I said, when she answered.
“I . . .”
From behind me, I felt something, like I’d
been stung. I brushed off my
back, but nothing was there.
“Hello?” the operator said.
“Reverse the charges, please.”
As the phone rang, I got that same sensation.
Like I’d been touched. But I
hadn’t . . . not yet. Something was coming, something worse than I’d thought.
Worse than Pop being dead.
I turned around.
When I saw those eyes, I left the receiver swinging.
I ran like mad back
the way I’d come.
In my mind, I could still see them. Eyes so black
like round windows to a
Steeplechase Pier in hell. A roller coaster spinning out of control, spitting out
kids and screaming mommies.
I ran until I couldn’t, anymore. Breathlessly,
I looked around. If he was
behind me, I didn’t see him. Or feel his eyes on me.
I trudged back to Mrs. Marshall’s.
“’MADAME MARSHALL,’” her
tin sign said, “PSYCHIC READINGS. KNOW YOUR
DESTINY!’” With a cloudy-looking eye under her name. Almost like it was seen
through a veil.
Strange, I thought, on my way inside. I’d
never noticed that eye, before.
Never seen her eyes, period.
Inside, it was too quiet. No clients in the waiting
room. And no voices,
so Mrs. Marshall wasn’t giving a reading.
By now, the fat lady’s would’ve been
over. Were all Mrs. Marshall’s
readings tragic? Maybe, I thought, heart lines could get mended.
It felt late, but outside it was still light out.
I wanted to call out but was too scared. Even
here. Right now, this
hidey-hole was the safest place I knew.
The beaded curtains jangled a warning.
The parlor was a mess. Cards everywhere, mostly
on where she lay, on the
floor. The little I knew about Tarot, I bet one would be Death.
My heart raced.
Like a broken doll, she looked, her arms and limbs
splayed out. Her throat
all purple. She was still dressed, but with that blonde 60s wig askew. Like Mom’s
gold turban.
The sunglasses were still on her face.
Slowly, I moved toward her. “Beware,”
I heard, as I reached for them.
Without the sunglasses, the eyes I’d never
seen were cloudy. Like she
watched me through a veil.
Once I put them on, I saw everything clearly:
A kid toppling off a roller
coaster . . . Pop doubling over in his chair . . .
A black eye winking.
THE
END
